CHAPTER XXV. AN APPEAL.
Chris walked as long as she could be seen by Donald; but as soon as she was out of his sight, she ran. Into the house, up the stairs, never taking breath until she had shut herself into the dressing-room, and turned the key in the lock. Then she took out the precious letter, her eyes so dim that at first she could scarcely read it. When at last she had conquered her agitation sufficiently to do so, she read the following words, written in a bold, clear hand:
“You must forgive,” so it began, without any heading, “all that is strange, all that is wrong in this letter, for it is the first I have ever written. If my words are like those of a savage you must forgive that too, for it is not my fault. I have lived alone for years that I cannot count, but it is nearly all my life, ever since my father died. I have been miserable enough, and yet I never knew what misery was until I saw you. Neither have I ever known what joy was until I looked into your eyes and touched your hand. You have opened the world to me. You have woke me out of a long sleep. You have given me heart and courage, you have saved me from becoming what they pretend that I already am. I had thought myself an outcast from all the world; long ago I had forgotten what hope was, when you came here like a ray of sunshine and changed the whole face of the world for me. I scarcely know how to go on. I am afraid to offend you, afraid that you will not believe what I say. But you are kind, you are good; and as I cannot see you again I must write. I ask you just this one thing; it is a favour I think you will not refuse. Come into the enclosed garden under my window every day, at any time, if only for five minutes, and let me see you. I know the gates are kept locked, but you will be able to do this if you will, for if you ask for the key you will get it, as nobody could resist you.
“One more thing I beg you to do. Be silent about me to the man who keeps me here. If you intercede for me you will only do me harm. I don’t know myself why he keeps me here; he has never even let me know my own name. I know, as you know, that I am cursed with an infirmity which condemns me to a solitary life; but I ask you to judge whether it was necessary to treat me as I have been treated. I know he pretends that I am dangerous; and he has just this excuse, that, as far as he is concerned, he has made me so. But I will not write to you of him. The time for me to call him to account is nearer than he thinks.
“If I see you in the garden to-morrow I shall know that you have found my letter, and that you forgive me.
“Dick.”
Chris had been interested in Mr. Richard. She had known of this interest, which had seemed to be occasioned by pity only. Now that she held his letter in her hands, and pressed it against her lips she knew more than this. She knew that the feeling she had for the forlorn recluse was something deeper, more tender than pity. She knew that she loved him.
When she went downstairs to dinner, her face seemed transfigured, her fresh beauty had never been so brilliant. All eyes were attracted by the delicate colour in her cheeks, by the brightness of her eyes; and Donald, who guessed the cause for this unusual radiance, was jealous and sullen throughout the meal.
The next day was that of the Graham-Shutes’ departure. The fair Maude thought it only right to warn her dear cousin John, before she went, to be on his guard against the Abercarnes, as they were very designing people. Dear cousin John retorted with a bombshell:
“I hope, my dear Maude,” said he, coolly, “that one of them will no longer be an Abercarne by the time I see you again.”
Crestfallen, the poor lady pretended not to understand. So John remorselessly explained:
“Why, I hope to make Christina Mrs. John Bradfield before many weeks are over.”
Poor Mrs. Graham-Shute drew a long breath. At last she said:
“Whatever you do, of course, you have my best wishes for your happiness. But—lucky as you are, John,” she ended, with spiteful emphasis, “I wouldn’t tempt Providence too far, if I were you!”
To which dear John answered by a roar of derisive laughter, which made Maude say to her husband, as they drove away, that, under the influence of those two harpies, John’s manners were deteriorating greatly.
John Bradfield went back into the house quickly after seeing his cousin off; he ran upstairs, and was in time to catch sight of Stelfox hovering about the doorway of the injured Marrable. John’s expression grew threatening. There was danger, danger too great to be tolerated, in the meeting of these two men. Each of the two possessed the links which the other lacked in a chain of facts, which, if known, would be John Bradfield’s ruin. With a black frown on his face, the master of the house opened the door of the sick-room quietly, and walked to the bedside.
Poor Marrable had begged to get up that day, being, indeed, quite well enough to do so. But John had insisted on his remaining in bed, apparently out of solicitude for his friend, but really in order that he might the more easily keep him under his own eye. Alfred appeared to be asleep. John Bradfield glared at him ferociously. With this man was the key to John’s fate. The knowledge he held of the past life of his old chum was shared by nobody else on this side of the ocean. With these thoughts passing through his mind, John Bradfield almost involuntarily began to lift up, one by one, the various bottles, some containing medicines, and some lotions for outward application, which stood upon the table.
Suddenly Alfred sprang up in bed, and stared at him with feverish eyes.
“There, there, there!” he cried, as if fear and indignation had deprived him of words. “Do you want to poison me? I believe you do. I can’t make you out, John. I’m afraid of you. You’re not the same man I used to know, and I’ll not stay under your roof another night! I tell you, I’m afraid of you.”
Remonstrance was useless, but indeed his host did not press him very much to stay; his chief wish now was to get his guest out of the house before Stelfox could learn his intention to go. In this he succeeded. Ordering the landau to be brought round, he himself helped Marrable downstairs, accompanied him to the station, reserved a first-class compartment for him, and made him as comfortable as he could with rugs and wraps. Then he looked in at the carriage window and spoke to him in tones to which joy at his departure lent an appearance of real warmth.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “I am afraid ours has been an unlucky meeting after all these years. But I’ve been worried lately; I’m not myself at all. But I’m not one to forget my old friends, and so you’ll find when you get back to town, if you’ll open this,” and he handed Marrable a large envelope sealed with red wax. “Just send me your address when you get home, and let me know whenever you change it. And every quarter you shall have a similar little packet from me as long as you need it, for auld lang syne. And a happy new year to you, old man.”
So saying, John Bradfield wrung his friend’s hand with a heartiness which soothed Marrable’s wounded feelings, and even went far, for the moment at least, towards deceiving him as to his friend’s real sentiments.
John Bradfield went home with a lighter heart. Here was one danger got over, for the present at least. There remained one other to be grappled with; that other was—Stelfox.
There could be little doubt that the man-servant had of late formed some sort of league against his master with that master’s victim, and Mr. Bradfield was anxious to know the exact terms of the compact. On reaching home, therefore, he condescended to play the spy, and with this object watched his opportunity, and when Stelfox unlocked the door of Mr. Richard’s apartments and went in, Mr. Bradfield followed him, entering by means of a duplicate key of his own.
Between the outer door by which he had just passed in, and the door of Mr. Richard’s sitting-room, there was a passage, very dark and very narrow, lighted only by a little square window in the centre of the inner door, which had been made for secret observation, by Mr. Bradfield’s order, of the lunatic’s movements.
Mr. Bradfield was advancing with cautious steps towards this window when he suddenly paused, struck motionless with terror. And yet he could see nothing, he could not even distinctly hear the words that were being exchanged in the room. All that he knew, in fact, was that he heard two voices in conversation. After a few moments of absolute stillness and hideous terror, he moved spasmodically forward to the inner door and looked through the little square window. All that he saw was Mr. Richard, seated at the table talking to Stelfox, who stood respectfully before him.
Mr. Bradfield drew a long, gasping breath; made his way, stumbling at every other step, back through the passage on to the landing at the head of the staircase outside. There he made one step in the direction of the stairs, staggered, and fell down, gasping, unconscious, digging his nails into the flesh of his hands.